


A Tossed Coin

by RonCN



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Forgotten Realms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonCN/pseuds/RonCN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mjirn is a houseless drow male who has tossed the coin of his life: there's a new city, a budding hope, a half dreamed dream... The coin spins and spins in the air: will it fall to heads or tails in the end? ::A dark tale of heroes and redemption::</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> Something slightly –quite- different from my usual trend: a story about redemption.
> 
> This is the life of Mjirn, a lost soul, seen through the scenes which touch him most deeply in his search for a new life. It takes place in the Forgotten Realms, in the Kingdom of Haven (a group of isles just west of the Nelanther Isles).
> 
> Warnings: Mature content and dark situations, which I hope to handle with some taste.
> 
> Disclaimers: NWN2 belongs to Atari. Forgotten Realms belong to Wizards of the Coast. Haven Persistent World belongs to Barfubaz. The name of Mjirn's home city, Maelrassin, is a small tribute to Valine's NWN module, "A dance with rogues", an amazing story that I do recommend.

It was the fourth city he would be calling "home", and time and time again he seemed to make the same mistake. He kept expecting things to change.

Back in his home city his life had already been as it would be later: born a houseless male, he had been only one step above slavery. And it had been one small step. Even though he was intelligent, deft, talented and handsome, nothing had served to change his destiny.

It was true that for a time he had believed that the handsome part would be useful, as it helped him to be noticed by the upper classes, but he had learnt soon the hard lesson that being noticed only worsened one's lot in life.

That was the reason why he had left Maelrassin in the first place: used and abused as an object, he had eventually managed to gather the courage to leave and head towards the one place where a male like him could make his own choices: Ssamath.

Mjirn smirked bitterly. He had learned too late that the fabled colleges of Magic required exorbitant entry fees. He had never owned much and he had escaped his homeland's hell with barely the clothes on his back, so there was little chance he could afford them, even if they'd not have been half as dear.

He had been too foolish back then, to think that his abilities, his services, his loyalty might persuade a mentor to foot his expenses, however minimal he kept them.

The worst part was to remember that it had taken him _years_ to realize it.

He had reached this third destination broken and spent, without any dreams to chase. Skullport had been his last escape route, nothing else: a city for renegades and scum, where he could mix with other houseless Ilythiiri and toil away his days. But even such a simple illusion had been too much to ask for in the end: without money, without status, without strength, without understanding the fine balance between the city's factions, he had sank once more to the very bottom of society. He became an object, a commodity, something to use and discard, so worthless that no one even thought of bothering to collar and claim him.

Just as it had been in Ssamath. Just as it had been in Maelrassin.

He had almost given up at that point. He had almost ignored the rumours about a paradise island where even _dhaerrow_ were accepted and where a powerful Mythal protected all those who sought refuge.

Looking around him, Mjirn tugged his cowl even lower over his face, partly to protect himself against the sun and partly to hide his heritage. He still didn't know where he had found the will and courage to ask the ship captain to hire him as part of the cleaning crew in the trip to Haven. He still wasn't sure whether it had been a good idea.

Probably not.

He would probably end where he began: a small step above the _gol_ slave force, if he was lucky.

But perhaps there was some truth in the rumours. Perhaps he would get the chance to study, as he had not been able to in Ssamath. Perhaps this was a chance, the one he no longer dared to dream about.

There was a Mythal in place, that much had been true at least: he could _feel_ it, even though he couldn't tell how he recognized it…

He took a deep breath and abandoned the ship, hoping again – this time, that he'd not be noticed.

And… there. He was in Sharessia.


	2. Act II

Mjirn sat in a corner of the Elvenforge tower, trying his best to fletch his own arrows. It was cheaper that way and arrows were, after all, the only weapon he could use to hunt the wretched creatures who infested the small islet near Sharessia, the so-called Goblin Island: he may have been forced to survive on goblin scraps, but he didn't have the constitution to bull rush the vermin.

"What are you doing, male?"

The sultry voice broke him out of this thoughts, speaking with the musical cadence and haughty tone he was so used to hear in the Underdark.

"I am merely tipping my arrows to prepare for the hunt, Mistress," he replied without thinking and his eyes automatically fell to the floor.

There were other drow in Sharessia, so many of them. The female, taller and more built than him though still petite for human standards, pouted her full lips and examined one of his finished pieces with obvious disdain.

Disdain was an emotion he could understand. He had faced it constantly before.

"You can take them if it pleases you, Mistress."

Of course she could take them. She was a female, and she carried herself with the proper dignity: unlike some of the other Ilythiiri he had run across in the confusing city, she knew the power she held. She did not need his permission to take _anything._

He told her anyway, though, as a way to acknowledge her superiority, because that was how things were supposed to be.

She broke the shaft in half and threw the pieces to the ground.

"What use would I have for such trash? Can you not do better?" her words were twisted with a sneer as she stared down at his crouched figure.

Mjirn darted a glace at his wasted work and then resumed staring at the female's boots, his shoulders tensing. She had addressed him probably because she was bored, and he was walking the thin line of displeasing her. He knew what that might mean for him.

"I do not have the knowledge nor the resources to create anything more worthy, Mistress."

"Worthy, indeed, is the word," he felt the eyes of the female studying him for a moment. "Come. I shall show you what you must do to perfect yourself."

He stood in one fluid movement, making sure not to lift his eyes and not to betray the shiver going down his spine: being singled out would surely have nefarious results, but it was also the only way to move forward – at least in drow society.

Sharessia, and the Kingdom of Haven in general, were a hive of all races across Faerun and a few from the outer planes, and there was not a semblance of order whatsoever. Surfacers and outsiders of all kinds mixed and interacted without readily apparent rules. They were noisy and outrageous and capricious, mercurial even in their dealings.

It should have been liberating.

It was terrifying.

For well over a century, during his life in Maelrassin, the structure of power had been solid behind its ever-changing façade: the Matron Mothers bowed to no one but Lloth, and after them invariably came the priestesses, the females, the most powerful males, the houseless females, the houseless males and the slave force.

When travelling to the City of Magic he had discovered a variation of the norm: High Wizards and arcane casters took the first positions, thus dislodging everyone two steps backwards in the chain of status. When one was placed at the bottom, though, the change was not overly noticeable: one still knew to whom defer.

While it was true that Skullport had been worse, it had not prepared Mjirn to deal with Haven: the free port of the Underdark had individuals of a number of races strewn through the hierarchical structure of the drow, true, and accommodating to their existence had almost been his downfall, but at least he had known those races to trade and war with the drow before. Mind flayers, duergar, beholders: they all were eyed with contempt by the dark elves, but acknowledged as capable and powerful, and most cities had forged a sort of grudging peace with them, so he knew what to expect.

But where did he stand in Sharessia?

He could not even determine who was the true power and who played the fool.

There was only one way a recently arrived refugee could react in such a circumstance, of course: assuming everyone else was above him while hoping to understand the new rules as fast as possible.

Unfortunately, reason seemed to have taken its leave from a city dedicated to the Goddess of hedonism and pleasure: if there were rules, they were still far beyond his grasp.

That was the appeal behind the female's haughty command: it was something he knew.

As he followed after the trailing cloak across the streets of Sharessia, towards the port, she didn't deign to look backwards once. Of course, she would assume a mere male would follow her orders. They reached the docks, attracting only a few curious glances from idle surfacers, and she proceeded to board a small skiff, instructing the boatman to take them to Mithuth.

It was a drow word: 'sin'.

Mjirn didn't have to go, from what he had gathered. Citizens insisted on claiming everyone was equal in stature and free of will and action. While he was in the capital, he could stand, look into the female's eyes, and tell her he was going to remain within the city's boundaries, enjoying its opportunities and freedom – for, surely, the female had no altruistic intentions when taking him to her own territory.

He hurried to climb into the boat and make himself as unobtrusive as possible, feeling the female's amused gaze burning on his skin.

Humbly, he lowered his eyes, white lashes falling against his high cheekbones, and held in the small smile threatening to curl up the corner of his lips.

The stakes were high, but at least this was a game he knew how to play.

o O o

Mithuth turned out to be an independent drow outpost and Mjirn didn't have to fake his wonder to play his abased role: the port was placed inside a small cave, reached after a short navigation of a narrow canal, and from there a teleport stone took the traveller to the city proper: an enormous cavern, magically eroded, decorated with opulent statues lit by faery fire. The city's timepiece was a fountain depicting a four-headed dragon, and the sound of running water reverberated in every nook and cranny, chasing away the unearthly silence of the Underdark.

Was this truly part of Haven? Mjirn couldn't tell: he'd have never thought the surface kingdom to harbour such a settlement… But then again, there was a sweet, sweet irony to it.

The female crossed the deserted plaza with long, confident strides, her hips swaying voluptuously in spite of the lack of public, and she never looked at him until they reached a second obelisk, similar to the one which had teleported them to the cave.

"Come," she repeated.

Her tone had changed, notes of greediness layering it along with a faint snarl denoting aggressiveness. This stone, this place, whatever it was, had been her goal from the moment she had decided to address him in the surface.

So be it.

Mjirn took a deep breath and touched the teleport and, after a lurching sensation, his feet found purchase in a mist-covered floor. The female appeared by his side almost immediately, but he took the chance to examine his surroundings as best as he could.

In front of him, just a few paces away, a statue of a horned demon emerged from the swirling mist and beyond it he could glimpse the faint silhouettes of tables and shelves lining the walls.

A laboratory.

When she had said to "perfect him", was this was she meant? To use _bits and pieces_ for experimentation?

He had been prepared for anything, but in spite of it he startled when he felt her cool, slender fingers caressing his naked neck. Like a predator, she prowled in a tight circle around him, her hand moving lazily from his neck to his chest, his shoulder, down his arm, to his hip, up his spine, to his neck again…

Assessing him. Learning whether he was a runaway slave, what was his physical form, how plying his body could be.

When she came to be in front of him again, he dared to glace up and caught sight of white teeth revealed in a feral grin.

"A male like you may not be alone," she purred, threading her fingers through his short, start white hair. "Useless, without direction."

"Of course, Mistress," he replied meekly, his pulse beating faster in his veins.

"You shall belong to me," her tone dropped, as did her hand. "I shall grant you access to this library and you shall prove yourself worthy of such favour. You shall be rewarded then" the female grinned darkly, her fingers cupping his crotch.

She didn't enunciate the alternative to success, but it did not matter: Mjirn's attention had shot to the dozens upon dozens of bookcases, and his mind reeled when he thought of the wealth of tomes stored in them.

Of course, they could be mundane, useless books. Or priceless notes taken in unknown languages. Females always had an edge when throwing dares in one's face and the challenge might very well be unconquerable, regardless of his dedication or talent.

He was risking death, torture, servitude, in exchange for a phantom chance to learn the Art he knew he had been born to wield.

High stakes, high gains.

Mjirn's smiled and allowed his hips to shift slightly into her hand, letting her feel his interest.

"Yes, Mistress," he purred. "I will not disappoint you."


End file.
